On the morning of 3rd April all hands mustered for the last time on the floes beside the ship. The final preparations were complete, and our seven heavily-laden sledges lay ranged in a line, with their knotted drag-ropes stretched on the snow. When every point in their dress and outfit had been carefully inspected, the men closed together, and joined heartily in the short service read by the chaplain. All felt the serious nature of the work they were about to undertake, but nevertheless looked forward to it eagerly. Then the order was given, and the sledge crews took their places—fifty-three men and officers in all. A little group of twelve only remained by the ship, every one of them regretting that it was not their duty to share hard work and exposure with their messmates. With three cheers the men took leave of their comrades and of the gallant little ship that had so well sheltered them, and the whole detachment moved forwards. The last to leave us was the Captain. He walked on a little while with each sledge, giving us a few words of advice or encouragement before he bade us God-speed.
Plate XI.—WINTER QUARTERS, FROM AMONGST THE FLOEBERGS, LOOKING SOUTH, March, 1876.—p. [51].
QUARTER of a mile north of the “Alert” a field of polar floe had been pushed on shore, and split up into a number of floebergs, with lanes and streets between them. This view of our winter quarters was obtained from the top of one of the fragments. Beyond the ship Cape Rawson may be seen forming the western portal of Robeson Channel, while away across the strait the snowy hills of Greenland make the eastern.
For a mile or more the sledges crept slowly along in the same order as they had started, dragging through the snow with much difficulty. The whole depth of the runners buried in the soft snow made them pull, as one of the men said, “like a plough with a cart-load on it.” The two leading sledges pulled the heaviest, though the weight per man was about equal in all. They carried specially-built boats, wonderfully light in proportion to their size, weighing respectively 740 and 440 lbs., but difficult to manage, because they distributed the weight over the whole length of the sledge. Every time a sledge stuck, it took a united effort with a “One, two, three, haul!” to start it forward again. Soon, in order to save the men, it became necessary to double-bank the sledges—that is to say, two crews pulled one sledge forward and then walked back for the other. Even the sledges without boats pulled very heavily. We could not but confess that the labour was harder than we had expected, but if others had gone through it we could. Crews loaded with exactly the same stores as ours, and pulling the same 240 lbs. a man, had accomplished all the longest journeys on record. Every ounce of weight on each of the seven sledges had been carefully thought over. Not so much as an unnecessary screw was carried. The sledge-rifle, for example, had four inches cut off its barrel and all the brass-work removed from its stock. Both men and officers knew that no reduction was possible unless the number of days’ travel was curtailed, or some other change made in the well-tried arrangements of their successful predecessors. On one point, however, our parties deviated from precedent. Tea instead of rum for lunch was most decidedly an improvement.
We camped early on the first day’s march. The spot selected was a little bay inside one of the curious hook-shaped promontories of the coast. The process of camping is a simple one. When camping-time comes, an officer goes on in advance and selects a flat piece of snow—a spot where it is soft for about six inches down is best. Then the sledge halts. Everything is unpacked. The cook of the day lights up his stearine lamp under a panful of snow for tea. The tent, with its poles already secured in it, is pitched, with its door away from the wind, and secured by ropes to the sledge at one end, and to a pickaxe driven into the snow or ice at the other; then a waterproof is spread over the snow inside, and over it a robe of duffle, a material like close blanket. The sleeping-bags and haversacks are next passed in, and the men, beginning with the innermost—for there is not room for all at once—change their snow-saturated moccasins and blanket wrappers for night pairs carried in the haversack. Moccasin, worsted stockings, and blanket wrappers all pull off together, frozen hard into one snowy mass about the foot. Meantime others are “banking up” snow all round the tent outside. Nothing adds more to the warmth of the tent than thorough “banking up.” In about an hour from the time of halting, every one, except the cook, is packed inside his bag. All wear close-fitting Berlin wool helmets, enclosing head and neck, and leaving only the face exposed; the men call them “Eugénies,” for they were the thoughtful gift of the Empress. The cook soon gives notice that tea is ready, and each man sits up in his bag and gets his pannikinful, softening his biscuit in it as it cools to a drinkable temperature. After tea comes half-a-pound of pemmican—a peppery mixture when one’s lips are blistered with hot and cold pannikins, and cracked with sun and frost. An ounce of preserved potato is warmed up with it, and greatly improves its flavour. When the cook has trimmed his lamp for the morning, and scraped out the pannikins, his duties are over, and he changes his foot coverings, wriggles into his bag, and squeezes himself down next the door. Finally, about half a wine-glassful of rum with a little water is served out all round. This, however injurious under other circumstances, helps to tide over the chilly moments when one’s frozen clothes melt, and acts much as a bellows does to a feeble fire. The heads soon disappear into the bags, and everyone goes to sleep as fast as the cold and cramp in his feet and legs will let him.